near love

the father
is washed away in his grief.
whitened
from
his loss. which wasn't true love
at all,
but resembled it.
who's to know what it really was?
yes, there was dancing.
yes. there were meals shared.
shows watched, walks taken.
but not a firework went off
and exploded in the air.
there were no bubbles
in that champagne,
but now
the bathing and feeding of a near
loved one grown old
and feeble,
says everything.
no cards, no flowers, no flourish
of words are
needed. no hearts carved
into a tree.
it's the whisper into the ear,
the hand on the cheek,
the arm,
the heart of one
lying there beyond life,
beyond belief,
the tilt of a bottle, or spoon
towards dry lips
waiting for the lights
to close that says it all.